by Laura Frantz
A touch to her arm turned her around. Behind her was Malachi, open admiration in his bearded face. For a moment they stood like stones lodged in a brook, people eddying around them in little waves.
His eyes held hers. “I couldn’t place your second piece.”
“The ‘Settler’s Lament’?” She smiled up at him, thankful for one appreciative listener, at least. “It’s an old Scots tune Papa taught me when I was knee-high.”
“You play with a great deal of feeling. Much like the Highland fiddlers I’ve been privy to.” Taking her elbow, he led her to a windowed alcove overlooking a rain-drenched garden. A cup of punch rested on the sill.
Gladness sifted through her at his thoughtfulness. “Thank you.”
“Actually, it was your escort’s doing. Sitting in the back of the room has its advantages, first in line at the refreshment table foremost.”
She took a thirsty drink, looking away from him, unsure where James was. Rarely did he stray from her side for long. For now she felt comfortable in the company of this tall, formidable man, his friend.
He cleared his throat. “About that lament . . . It reminds me of the one played at my father’s funeral.”
Her gaze swiveled back to him. “Your father? I didn’t realize . . .”
“I’ve recently come out of mourning. I’m aware you lost your mother as well.”
She felt a sudden shadow. She rarely mentioned Mama.
His eyes were grave. “Does it ever get easier . . . in time?”
The open sorrow in his face touched her. She’d tried hard to forget those first dark days and weeks, when she’d groped about like a blind person in her grief. “At first it’s all you think about. Nothing is like it used to be. And then slowly life rights itself, but a part of you stays missing.”
“I hope one day to miss him less. Regret less.”
Yes. That had been her heart’s cry over time, though the soreness inside her stayed fast. She blinked, the slight movement causing a tear to fall and spot her gloved hand. She froze at the slip, feeling one too many eyes on her.
“Forgive me, Miss Ballantyne.” Fumbling, he pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “I don’t mean to make the evening a melancholy one.”
She took the linen cloth, catching a bold hint of spice in its soft folds, so different from James’s subtle tobacco and bergamot scent. “Think nothing of it. I like plain speaking. A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved, as they say.”
He took the empty cup from her, returning it to the sill. “I’ve been considering what you proposed in the carriage that day.” His expression held an endearing sincerity, something she craved. “If I came to call on you at New Hope, perhaps you could teach me to play the violin. Private lessons, if you will.”
She tipped her head, unsure of him. Was he willing to set aside business to embrace a little music? Swallowing, she cast about for a proper response. “Come as you wish, Mr. Cameron. I’ll be waiting.”
It wasn’t what she’d meant to say. It was what society required of her. And the light in his eyes told her it was what he wanted to hear.
Behind them stood James, his expression inscrutable. “The Alexanders have asked that we play the finale at evening’s end, Miss Ballantyne. A duet.”
Oh? She’d been prepared to play a solo instead. “Just the two of us, Mr. Sackett?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Malachi chuckled, the somber mood of moments before a memory. “This I have to see.”
James gave a tug to his cravat as if it was too tight. “I said I would play. I never said I played well.”
“I’ve never heard you play, period,” Malachi told him.
“All the better.” James looked to Wren. “The question is, what shall we play?”
“A parlor song might be best, one of Stephen Foster’s, maybe the one we managed that night at River Hill.” Her voice faded as the memory of Grandfather crept in. He was never far from her thoughts. “Or a love song.”
Both men were regarding her, faces intent. For a few fleeting seconds it seemed they were asking her to choose, not between songs . . .
But between them.
Startled, she murmured, “I saw the sheet music for ‘Sherwood Duet’ near the pianoforte.”
Malachi was looking past them to their host, who was signaling him from across the room. He excused himself rather reluctantly, leaving them alone.
“Wren . . .” James faced her, blocking her view of Malachi’s retreating back. “Mrs. Alexander has asked that you be a little more . . . restrained.”
Her eyes widened. “Less impassioned in my playing, you mean.”
“In a word, yes.”
“Is that why she paired us, Jamie? So you can rein me in?”
“Likely.”
“Well, you don’t have to look so aggravated about it.” She studied him, tongue in cheek. She’d never managed to stir him yet. “I simply thought to bring a little life to a lifeless place.”
His steady gaze held hers, reminding her of her manners. “Are you trying to damage your good standing, Miss Ballantyne? Because if you are, your performance here at the Alexanders’ is a fine start.”
“I see no need to change the way I play for Pittsburgh.” Hurt crept into her voice—and a niggling defiance. “Do you?”
“I take no exception to your music or style of playing, but the Alexanders do.” He smiled politely as a guest swept past them. “And as their guest you need to tread carefully. That’s all I’m saying.”
She looked to his shoes, shrinking from the rare rebuke in his tone, embarrassment burning her cheeks. She cared little about the Alexanders’ opinion. She cared far too much about James Sackett’s. “Then you’d best pick the music lest I make a mess of it.”
He took a step nearer, more tender. “I promised the Ballantynes I’ll do whatever I can to ensure you have a successful season, Wren. Tonight is no exception.”
Unable to meet his eyes, she swallowed down the questions that threatened to swallow her up instead. Just what was his measure of success? Ensnaring a husband who thought she was someone other than she was? Losing herself in the process? Making music so watered down she no longer recognized it or herself?
He looked away from her. “‘Sherwood Duet’ will make a fitting finish.”
She gave a stiff nod. Malachi was coming back to them, working his way across the crowded room. He hadn’t upbraided her for her style of playing. On the contrary, he wanted to come for private lessons. Maybe there was more common ground between them than she’d first thought.
The next day the seamstresses convened like a covey of quail, tittering and scattering about, mouths full of pins and fingers occupied with needle and thread. It seemed every one of Grandmother’s antique gowns was spread over the dressing room in various stages of reconstruction.
“There’s to be a masquerade ball,” Andra told her. “We need to decide on your costume. Alice Mellon is coming as Cleopatra, so we don’t dare duplicate that. Perhaps you can find out what the other young ladies are wearing when you attend the Ewings’ tea this week.”
The tea . . . Alice. Wren withheld a sigh, then remembered a fetching dress in Magasins de Modes. “I’ll be a shepherdess.”
“A shepherdess?” Andra frowned, her gaze unblinking. “Rowena, I do not hope to ever understand you. One would think you’d ascribe to grander things, even for a masquerade.”
The tea was two days away, the tea gown with its lush overlay of Brussels lace waiting in her dressing room. For now the afternoon was almost upon them when she’d go to the orphanage for lessons, then escape to River Hill. Grandfather, slowly improving, wanted to return home to New Hope. Wren prayed that would come to pass. With a small army of servants waiting on just her and Andra, the old house held an echo, despite the silver salver in the foyer laden with visiting cards. Each caller, Andra reminded her, required a return visit—or a snub.
“Oh, aye, here’s another,” Mim quipped that afternoon, ar
ranging the cards from most desirable to least. “Mr. Malachi’s right at the top. What think ye o’ that?”
“I think,” Wren said thoughtfully, “that he means to learn to fiddle.”
“Och!” With a gleeful chuckle, Mim started down the hall. “There’ll be some fiddling all right, but it willna involve the violin.”
Wren sighed, her thoughts falling back to the musicale. Caught in a vulnerable moment, she and Malachi had found a sort of harmony in their grief, yet all that wove its way across her soul since then was the music she and James had made. He’d acquitted himself well, his robust playing a perfect foil to her finesse, so the papers said. Her pleasure in their pairing was short-lived when she recalled Malachi watching them from the shadows. Intently. Possessively.
Wren examined his glazed card, smaller than her own as custom required, one corner bent, meaning Malachi took the time to deliver it himself rather than sending a servant in his stead. The owner of the Pennsylvania Railroad, bending a card just to be with her.
What would her response be?
27
Do not conceive that fine clothes make fine men, any more than fine feathers make fine birds.
GEORGE WASHINGTON
“Yer missing Mr. James, I ken. ’Tis ugsome that gentlemen dinna take tea like ladies do.” Across from Wren sat Mim, undisturbed by the coach’s rocking and swaying. “Just remember I’ll be a stone’s throw away in the dressing room making faces at the other maids if ye need me.”
Wren nearly smiled, imagining the pecking order belowstairs. She smoothed a lace sleeve as the coach gave a lurch. A basketful of nerves since rising, she tried to approach the four o’clock hour a bit hopeful. There were so many young women in society but precious little time to talk. Might some spark of friendship be found in the Ewings’ tearoom?
Her hopes rose at the sight of Lucy Hurst, then fell as Alice Mellon came into view. Though no one had said an ugly word about Alice, least of all James, her sense that Alice meant trouble grew with every function.
“Good afternoon, Miss Ballantyne.” Mrs. Ewing’s greeting was ever formal, devoid of the warmth Wren craved. “So good of you to come on such a frightful day. I trust you’re enjoying your season.”
Wren smiled, saying nothing rather than lie. I’m enjoying pondering the end of it. What would the high-minded Mrs. Ewing say to that?
A maid came forward to usher her into the tearoom, a circular bower of blue damask lit by crystal chandeliers, drapes drawn against the chill. Lace tablecloths adorned with hothouse blooms and china held untold challenges.
“Hello, Rowena,” Lucy greeted her. She was one of a dozen debutantes gathered round an ornate hearth, just far enough from the fire screen to protect their skirts from a stray spark.
“That’s a fetching gown, Lucy.” Wren meant it. She tried to counter the artifice around her with sincerity whenever she could.
“I daresay it doesn’t hold a candle to yours, Rowena.” Lucy’s British accent rose above the sudden hush. “That shade of rose is quite becoming. I’ve not seen that sort of embroidery before.”
“Miss Ballantyne is fond of wearing her grandmother’s relics from the last century.” Alice’s voice slid into the silence, a shade too shrill. “Don’t you read the papers? They’re always gushing about her quaint wardrobe. There’s scarcely any print left for politics or war talk and the like.”
“I don’t peruse the papers.” Lucy’s calm blunted Wren’s embarrassment. “I’d rather spend my time embroidering or painting or riding.”
“Speaking of riding . . .” With a wave of her fan, Jeannie French turned the tide of conversation. “There’s to be a fox hunt at Paisley Hill next weekend. We ladies are invited to attend, provided we don’t prove a distraction. The master of the hunt is Henry Holdship.” Her gaze swept to a blushing debutante in peach satin. “And given that fact, I know of at least one Pittsburgh belle who’ll be there.”
Half a dozen silken bodices shook with suppressed laughter.
Victoria Ewing moved closer, her wide skirts brushing Wren’s own. “I’m surprised Preston French or Malachi Cameron aren’t in the thick of things, with their English hounds and field hunters.”
Wren listened, intrigued. She hadn’t known Malachi was a huntsman. She doubted he hunted the sort of game she’d grown up with.
“Oh, the gentlemen you mention are far removed from such mundane matters as that.” Jeannie gave a tight smile. “I believe Mr. French is spoken for—and Mr. Cameron would like to be. The coming hunt is probably the farthest thing from their minds.” Her gaze touched Wren before dropping demurely. “But it’s so early in the season, anything might happen.”
Riddled with unease, Wren looked toward the hall as the faint squeal of wheels announced the coming of tea carts. They trundled into the room, serving maids close behind. Wren noted the small groupings of tables, the place cards inked in black. Alice was to sit opposite her, Lucy between them. Wren’s stomach soured as she took a seat.
“Ah . . .” Alice eased into her chair and eyed the étagères of iced cakes and tiny sandwiches. “A sumptuous offering. And you, Rowena? Do Kentuckians take tea?” The condescension in her tone was thick as the clotted cream in its silver dish. “I’ve heard you Southerners are partial to frolics and square dances and such, nothing quite so refined as this.”
Lucy’s smile was thin. “Did you read that in the papers too, Alice?”
“Heavens no, I was told that by James Sackett himself. Plying the waters as he does aboard the Ballantyne line, he’s privy to a great many things beyond Pittsburgh.” Alice looked at Lucy, studiously avoiding Wren. “The Ballantynes did well persuading him to be Rowena’s escort, though I feared he’d be undone by her playing at the Alexanders’ Wednesday night.”
Lucy removed her gloves and draped them across her lap. “Mr. Sackett isn’t one to be easily undone, Alice. I remember nothing untoward at the musicale.”
“Then you didn’t see Miss Ballantyne perform solo, only her sedate duet with Mr. Sackett at evening’s end.”
“True, I arrived late, as our carriage lost a wheel.” Lucy cast Wren an apologetic glance. “But neither did I hear any gossip till now.”
“Not gossip . . . fact.” Alice leaned in, voice low. “Our Kentucky acquaintance seemed to forget herself, playing with a sort of unbridled abandon, almost like a wild Turlock instead of a refined Ballantyne. I’m afraid Mr. Sackett had little choice but to take command of the situation lest she disgrace herself and ruin her chances in polite society—”
“Polite society?” Wren’s voice lifted. “I don’t know that Pittsburgh is so refined with ladies the likes of you, who make a practice of belittling others to their very faces.”
The room hushed.
“I beg your pardon, Rowena Ballantyne. You’re hardly one to be speaking to me of what ladies do and don’t do.” As she took a breath, Alice’s fury surged. “One can only hope Mr. Cameron will snap to his senses before the season ends—”
“Malachi Cameron happens to appreciate my music if you do not.” Though her jaw clenched, Wren failed to keep her voice steady. It wavered like a loosened fiddle string and threatened to snap. “As for the rest of society, I don’t give a fig what they think of me or my playing.”
“Well, rest assured, they don’t think much of either—”
“Alice, please,” Lucy said, near tears.
Wren looked to her lap, thinking of James. Had he said such things? In a high-minded sort of way? Making fun of her and her beginnings like Alice implied? The imagined hurt of it sliced deep, to her very bones. Even worse was Alice’s suggestion he had somehow been ensnared by Andra and Bennett to act as her escort, as if it was a punishment to do so.
Mrs. Ewing came in, seemingly unaware of the confrontation, though the chilly silence in the room couldn’t be ignored. Wren was barely aware of a maid at her elbow pouring tea, likely taking in every word of the unsavory scene to share belowstairs. The tick of her pulse turned thund
erous in her ears as she groped for some rule to hold on to.
Never act in anger . . . Learn to speak in a gentle tone of voice . . . Govern yourself and be patient . . . Silence is often more golden than speech.
All rang hollow.
“Would you like a tea cake, Rowena?” Not waiting for a reply, Lucy served her as if nothing had been said, no feelings ruffled, as polite talk resumed around them.
Wren kept her eyes down, a slow awareness filling her. Alice Mellon was smitten with Malachi Cameron. Or perhaps even James. That was why she struck like a rattler, poison in her bite.
Love thine enemies.
Wren nearly winced at the unbidden reminder. Alice was no friend, yet there was truth in what she’d said. Compared to these pampered belles, Wren was common. Unfit to turn a railroad man’s head. An embarrassment to her genteel escort. And a hypocrite to boot, sitting at a tea table pretending politeness when she’d rather turn it on end.
A little of Alice’s malice had taken root in her own heart, watered and nurtured by missing home and Mama’s passing and being thrust into the thick of Pittsburgh.
Lord, forgive me.
She looked up, half hoping to make peace, but Alice was drinking her tea, triumph in her smug expression. She clearly wanted nothing from Wren, least of all an apology.
If this was society, Wren wanted nothing to do with it.
Though bitterly cold, New Hope’s chapel held the privacy Wren craved, far from society’s stilted drawing rooms and unfriendly teas. Here Andra would never bother her nor Mim come looking. Here she could try to regain some sense of balance.
She took a steadying breath, chest aching from the chill, her stiff fingers unfolding a letter. Papa had written again. She brought the hotel stationery with its fancy letterhead to her nose, fancying it bore his beloved scent, a trace of his presence. His writing hand had always been so elegant. An indication of the gentleman he was and had ever been. A reproach to the finesse she lacked.